Lindsborg to Lawrence: Reminiscences, 1929-1931

LINDSBORG TO LAWRENCE: REMINISCENCES, 1929-1931 EVERT A. LARSSON
In November
o
f 1924, Evert A. Larsson, then in the prime of his youth, immigrated from Sweden to the U.S., where he first stayed with relatives on their farm near McPherson, Kansas. In 1925 he matriculated at Bethany College in Lindsborg, Kansas, and gra­duated
with the class of 1929. Previously in the Quarterly, he published "Lidköping to Lindsborg: Reminiscences, 1924-1929," Part I (Vol. 33, No. 2, pp. 84-110) and Part II (Vol. 33, No. 3, pp. 183-206). The following article is a continuation of his memoirs.
R.J.
The town of Lawrence, where the University of Kansas is located and where I was scheduled to begin my medical studies, had experienced its own history of blood, tears, and human woes; but when I arrived there, after stepping off the train from Lindsborg, it had been at peace with its past for generations and presented itself as a typical midwestern town with a crowded main street lined with red brick buildings, with wide sidewalks, and a great number of side streets. Dating from the middle of the nineteenth century, the town had been settled by pioneers from New England—hence its name. But other people, including a fair number of Swedes, had also made early contributions.
I walked the two to three miles from the depot up to a sprawling hill, Mount Oread, where the University of Kansas was located and where I found the boardinghouse in which I hoped to stay. A long time previously I had been promised a job as a dishwasher in this place but, "Where dwells that promise now?" I wondered uneasily. Perhaps it had faded away with time. But no, the caretaker of the boardinghouse, Mr. Jackson, greeted me as an old friend and my apprehension vanished. In no time at all I was once more installed as a "pearl diver" (dishwasher) and assigned to a bed in the basement, which was rather damp, I thought; but I was in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth when room and board were at stake.
The next day I took a walk around the university campus and was duly impressed by the architecture of its structures, with the pillared buildings and many towers. I considered myself lucky finally to be a participant in the life of a university. At the appointed time I presented myself at the School of Medicine, where I enrolled as a first-year student. I had barely enough money for the required fees.
E v e r t A . Larsson in 1 9 3 0 . ( C o u r t e s y of t h e a u t h o r . )
Anatomy, physiology, biochemistry, bacteriology, microbiology, and several other subjects were waiting for me. Our work in anatomy began in the dissecting room where about twenty-five to thirty cadavers reposed on as many different tables. Two students were assigned to a cadaver, one on each side of it. At the first demonstration by the instructor to a group of students gathered around one particular cadaver—insouciantly called a stiff—one of the students, not yet attuned to the moment, promptly fell to the floor at the first incision, escaping into a faint. After a moment he revived, stood up, walked out, and never came back. The profession may have lost a sensitive doctor. In those days the cadavers were obtained from poorhouses, state hospitals, prisons, and so on and were kept floating in a preservative fluid in a huge basin in the basement of the building. It was a recoiling sight, and when I saw the bodies I thought of them as transients from a life of despair—and joy, too, perhaps—to an ignominious state, yet one beneficial to medicine. I never went back, however, to that basin.
One's knowledge in all the different subjects was tested con­stantly.
We barely had recovered from one test before another came along, especially in anatomy. There one had to go from cadaver to cadaver where numbered strings had been tied to nerves, muscles, tendons, and other structures. One pulled on the string, identified the structure, and wrote down the number and one's findings.
There were thousands of students at the university and a score of fraternities and sororities, whose members lived in splendid houses and called themselves "Greeks." My grades from college were good and I suppose that this was the reason I received a dinner invitation to a medical fraternity. It was simply an inquiry, and afterwards I was found wanting. Why I don't know. Perhaps the accent of a foreign-born person played a role, or my demeanor, or my necktie, which was old and not in fashion... All the same, I thought a whole lot about those boys, but not as much as they did. This particular fraternity was, however, and exception among all the other ones in its dedication to learning. Its members habitually quizzed one another on medical subjects and thus may have attained a proficiency not achieved by non-members who were more or less on their own.
One phenomenon that amazed my still wondering senses was the social life of the college students, as distinct from their medical counterparts. In this community of scholars where the pursuit of knowledge should serve as a equalizing and unifying force with one student as worthy as any other, I soon perceived that a distinction existed and that for general purposes the student body was divided by its constituents themselves and by silent acquies­cence,
or social sanction, into members of the fraternities and sororities on the one hand and unaffiliated students on the other. The former called themselves Greeks and in the true spirit of the ancients labeled the other "barbs", that is, barbarians or outsiders. The latter category never made mention of themselves in these terms but were not adverse in referring to the Greeks as Greeks. There was not much evidence, if any, of course, that Greek civilization had now found a lofty outlet in the Greek-letter houses. Jazz music, croon songs, and other renditions of popular tunes blared from their Victrolas, too. One piece in particular, which began "By the silvery moon I want to spoon," possibly captured the essence of Greek-letter life, but it was easy on the ear. Not that the "barbs" were uncultured, uncouth, or smelly; but while the Greeks lived in stately mansions supported by more or less well-to-do parents, the "barbs" found refuge in boardinghouses.
The Greeks were selective in their social contacts and like the Hellenes themselves felt above the common herd, personified by the "barbs." Thus there was scant or no social communication between the two factions. As a rule, a Greek girl—unless possessed by overwhelming love—would date only Greek boys and vice versa. The Greeks were rather conscious of their status, the "barbs" either indifferent or else a little envious of those on the other side. I, who had been in this country only a few years, thought all this a little odd, if not out of place, since they all came from the same democratic background, fraternity brothers, sorority sisters, and plebeians. It had the familiar ring of European class distinction, the difference being it looked like a flight of fancy to be ignored. Modes of dress and living were also different: the fraternity brother would gladly don his coonskin coat, the trendy, bulky outer garment of the day, concealing perhaps a hip flask. This made him the fashionable college boy, according to the popular magazine College Humor. He also had a car, open of course, in which he and his sorority date would take joy-rides and all too frequently end up on a slab in the morgue. I often wondered when these people ever studied.
Americans may have discarded royalty; but deep down in their souls, I thought, there dwelled a vivid admiration for titled people, and invariably a baron or duke or something better could be pointed to in a family's record of its ancestors. One day on our campus in the true spirit of a fairy tale, it was announced that a Russian prince would honor the university with his presence, if as a student or something else I didn't know. Long before his appearance, when his arrival was a mere rumor, the social crowds, mostly members of the sororities and even some of the "barb" girls, became filled with great expectations and atwitter with excitement and made themselves ready to do proper homage to royalty. Articles on his visit to the university were printed; receptions including tea parties with real samovars were planned. It was to be as Russian as a night on a Bald Mountain—now transposed to another hillside, Mount Oread, not to feature prancing witches, of course, but rather girls from Kansas and dance music instead of peeling church bells. At that time, around 1930, the U.S. was being entered by a great number of immigrants, mostly White Russians, staunchly anti-communistic, many of whom called themselves princes. It was a time when America was not inundated by impoverished peasants from Europe, but by those born to the purple.
The Russian prince, imposter or not, finally arrived on our campus, whatever his mission, and managed to massage the snobbery of the social caste—and for a short time lived off the fat of both Greek and "barbarian" tables. Then he was gone and the excitement died down, but fond memories with an alleged royal touch lingered for a long time. I never saw the fellow. I was occupied with books, debts, and dishwashing. As an afterthought, however, one may recall the U.S. Congress in its early years and its Committee on Titles, where it once was proposed that the President of the United States be addressed as "Elective Majesty" or "Elective High."
My own social life was restricted in several respects: lack of financial means being one and a paucity of the usual social expressions being another. My mother's beliefs and strictness shaped my social life, and I may as well appreciate it now. I and my siblings were forbidden to attend any of the goings-on in the People's Amusement Park in my hometown. Dancing was the Devil's invitation to sin. And no card playing in our home and no smoking and no alcohol, but she cured a cold by making us drink almost a half-full cup of hot vodka, the hotter the better, but the very thought of it probably cured the cold. It still amazes me that anyone is able to drink vodka straight.
The country was now suffering the first, frightful symptoms of the Great Depression, a plague filled with despair and hopeless­ness,
abundant in all parts of the country. I was keenly aware, actually too keenly, of my status as a European foreigner-greenhorn. And in those days such a person was held in low esteem in certain strata of society. My professors and fellow medical students, though, never showed any evidence of prejudice or dislike that I could perceive. In Lindsborg I had always felt as a Swede among Swedes, albeit I had only recently arrived. But this was a university with a great mixture of students from many backgrounds and with diverse views of the world. Some of them regarded anything foreign with jaundiced eyes. The Western World had located the Devil in Russia; and in America at the time, anti-communism was passionately nurtured. There were, however, some individuals, even in high positions, who found certain aspects of communism compatible with their understanding. There was even talk of this as perhaps the wave of the future. One college instructor, actually a civil, caring person, had embraced a few communistic ideas and as a reward became known as "that commie" or "dirty red." Well, any dissenter, political or non-political, was in line for the "dirty red" label. I happened to express some sympathy for the harassed "commie" instructor to a student who was familiar with my background and who after recovering from his instant shock angrily said to me, "Don't bite the hand that feeds you!" This brotherly admonishment immedi­ately
put me in my place as an ingrate—perhaps even a sinister sympathizer—and identified my standing in his society. It was at that time a sensitive subject in an otherwise insensitive era.
I made the acquaintance of a graduate student by the name of Kilpatrik. He was two to three years older than I and to comply with Emily Post's rules I always called him Mr. Kilpatrik. He was a restless, unromantic, talkative fellow with a nervous twitch in his eyelids. His lips seemed to be drawn into a one-sided, perpetual smile. He was interested in the cold facts of history and language, and these he discussed in preference to anything else. To support himself, at least partially, he solicited subscriptions to the Saturday Evening Post, which must have provided only a meager income. He looked half-starved most of the time.
He was on good terms with an elderly, retired lady professor, Miss Murdoch, who lived in a little white Victorian frame house on one of the tree-lined streets. Many a time Kilpatrik and I would pay her visits, be seated in her parlor, which contained antique furniture, potted plants, a variety of heirlooms, lace curtains at the windows, small paintings of some long dead ancestors, the sleepy tick-tock of a Connecticut steeple clock, and finally the pleasant, faintly detected scent that tells more than one's eyes observe of surviving objects from a long since vanished era. And the lady of the house—small in stature, somewhat stooped, white hair, alert eyes, kind and gracious—completed the impression of ancientness. She was, however, no fossil but rather thought provoking and eagerly interested in the world. She was of New England stock, and her parents had been instrumental in the building and develop­ment
of the community. What I remember most vividly is her description of the Quantrill Raid in the summer of 1863 when the town of Lawrence, then a wealthy bastion of abolitionism, was sacked by border outlaws, pro-slavery forces. She was only a child when these bushwhackers came, but old enough to have the horror of the raid imprinted forever on her mind. There were killings, burnings, lootings, torture, maiming, and other atrocities commit­ted,
as is frequently the case in the name of some high-sounding principle or cause. Every family in town was affected in some way by the sufferings of that day. It was abhorrently impressive to hear her tell of that nefarious event, and strikingly peculiar to feel the proximity in time to one aspect of the Civil War, and to the ruthless Quantrill, who has been called "the bloodiest man in American history." Yet here was this kind woman talking about a terrible happening long, long ago with such expressiveness that I was removed back in time and could feel the tension and the fear of one of the victims of the raid.
The lady professor became a dear friend, and during our visits in her home we partook of the good life for some salutary moments, drinking tea and listening to her stories of many unusual happenings in or around Lawrence since the time of the Quantrill raid. Being a teacher, she would put a concealed meaning into some tale, and perhaps touch it up with a stroke of creative imagination, but this merely added intrigue to an actual event. She was a faithful Congregationalist and looked with compassion on men and women caught in the distressing circumstances of the ups and downs of life.
Appearances and deceptions sometimes go hand in hand, the professor said. She once knew a married couple in the neighbor­hood
who because of their exemplary devotion to one another became the subject of the entire community's admiration and envy and a model of marital bliss. A more courteous, helpful, loving husband and a more appreciative recipient of attention than the wife could not be found in ten counties. It was fidelity in its purest form, people would tell each other, the be-all and end-all of human relationships. But it was not so. One day in the thirtieth year of their marriage the husband suddenly died, and tucked away in his wallet the wife found a piece of paper on which he had vengefully summed up a false and frustrating conjugal role. He called her an ogre, a tyrant, insensitive and domineering to a degree that made him a non-entity, a miserable nobody in order to keep her quiet and have peace at home.
Yes, that is a lesson, the teacher-professor said; and though the vision may seem clear, there exists such an abundance of misinterpretations and deceptions that things, as an ancient philosopher said, are not what they seem. And somewhat akin, in a way, I remember the professor of surgery I later had who told his students to ask themselves during the examination of a patient and his complaints, often obscure, "Is there something or is there nothing?"
Medical students spent the first one and a half years of study on the campus in Lawrence and then, if they had completed the required subjects with passing grades, were transferred to the University Medical Center in Kansas City, Kansas, for further studies and clinical work. I had convinced myself that my academic work in Lawrence had been satisfactory and that a transfer was at hand. But this self-induced conviction turned out to be quite a misconception. I received an F in biochemistry. It floored me. I wasn't that bad. I had done fairly well in that subject, I thought, and didn't deserve such a setback. I made some cautious objections but without success. So I spent the next year repeating biochemis­try;
and the final grade now was an A, which upon a little reflection I felt I didn't deserve either, but I made no objections. I did not want the year to be one of dawdling, so I signed up for two more subjects.
One day I was told that the bursar wanted to see me. I went to her office and was informed that my presence at the university was about to become—"I am sorry, young man"—a non-presence. I didn't understand what she was speaking about. Perhaps my status as a non-citzen of the country was the problem, but finally it was made clear to me that it centered around the omnipresent problem of money and unpaid fees. My mind refused to accept any such notion that I had arrived at a door marked exit. I used all available mechanisms of defense, reasoning, explanations, logic, apologies, and even professed poverty. She was adamant and in a touchy mood; she may have seen many of the likes of me that same day. Suddenly, while her unyieldingness increased and my spirit deflated, it seemed as if my entire world was collapsing around me and that all of my efforts, studies, and work had come to naught. I spent the next few days contemplating life's fickleness. Then a friend told me to go and talk with the dean, and I did. This was Dr. Werner, a native of England. In no time at all he disarmed the bursar and persuaded her to have the score settled on another, better day. I once saw a film in which a house was completely destroyed; but when the film was run backwards, the house came together again, piece by piece. A few days later, Dr. Werner gave me a job with pay washing glassware in a laboratory as well as a small student loan. And later still he invited me to his home to have Christmas dinner with his family. Going from the bursar to the dean was, I fancied, like Kipling's lone traveller who went down to Gehenna and up to the throne. For me and also for many other students, Dear Werner is unforgettable.
After this perilous escape from misfortune, virtually by the skin of my teeth, I was advised to get ready for my transfer. One month after that memorable Christmas dinner I together with my classmates, departed for the Medical Center in Kansas City. I did not give any particular thought to possible new problems that might arise in the future.

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LINDSBORG TO LAWRENCE: REMINISCENCES, 1929-1931 EVERT A. LARSSON
In November
o
f 1924, Evert A. Larsson, then in the prime of his youth, immigrated from Sweden to the U.S., where he first stayed with relatives on their farm near McPherson, Kansas. In 1925 he matriculated at Bethany College in Lindsborg, Kansas, and gra­duated
with the class of 1929. Previously in the Quarterly, he published "Lidköping to Lindsborg: Reminiscences, 1924-1929," Part I (Vol. 33, No. 2, pp. 84-110) and Part II (Vol. 33, No. 3, pp. 183-206). The following article is a continuation of his memoirs.
R.J.
The town of Lawrence, where the University of Kansas is located and where I was scheduled to begin my medical studies, had experienced its own history of blood, tears, and human woes; but when I arrived there, after stepping off the train from Lindsborg, it had been at peace with its past for generations and presented itself as a typical midwestern town with a crowded main street lined with red brick buildings, with wide sidewalks, and a great number of side streets. Dating from the middle of the nineteenth century, the town had been settled by pioneers from New England—hence its name. But other people, including a fair number of Swedes, had also made early contributions.
I walked the two to three miles from the depot up to a sprawling hill, Mount Oread, where the University of Kansas was located and where I found the boardinghouse in which I hoped to stay. A long time previously I had been promised a job as a dishwasher in this place but, "Where dwells that promise now?" I wondered uneasily. Perhaps it had faded away with time. But no, the caretaker of the boardinghouse, Mr. Jackson, greeted me as an old friend and my apprehension vanished. In no time at all I was once more installed as a "pearl diver" (dishwasher) and assigned to a bed in the basement, which was rather damp, I thought; but I was in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth when room and board were at stake.
The next day I took a walk around the university campus and was duly impressed by the architecture of its structures, with the pillared buildings and many towers. I considered myself lucky finally to be a participant in the life of a university. At the appointed time I presented myself at the School of Medicine, where I enrolled as a first-year student. I had barely enough money for the required fees.
E v e r t A . Larsson in 1 9 3 0 . ( C o u r t e s y of t h e a u t h o r . )
Anatomy, physiology, biochemistry, bacteriology, microbiology, and several other subjects were waiting for me. Our work in anatomy began in the dissecting room where about twenty-five to thirty cadavers reposed on as many different tables. Two students were assigned to a cadaver, one on each side of it. At the first demonstration by the instructor to a group of students gathered around one particular cadaver—insouciantly called a stiff—one of the students, not yet attuned to the moment, promptly fell to the floor at the first incision, escaping into a faint. After a moment he revived, stood up, walked out, and never came back. The profession may have lost a sensitive doctor. In those days the cadavers were obtained from poorhouses, state hospitals, prisons, and so on and were kept floating in a preservative fluid in a huge basin in the basement of the building. It was a recoiling sight, and when I saw the bodies I thought of them as transients from a life of despair—and joy, too, perhaps—to an ignominious state, yet one beneficial to medicine. I never went back, however, to that basin.
One's knowledge in all the different subjects was tested con­stantly.
We barely had recovered from one test before another came along, especially in anatomy. There one had to go from cadaver to cadaver where numbered strings had been tied to nerves, muscles, tendons, and other structures. One pulled on the string, identified the structure, and wrote down the number and one's findings.
There were thousands of students at the university and a score of fraternities and sororities, whose members lived in splendid houses and called themselves "Greeks." My grades from college were good and I suppose that this was the reason I received a dinner invitation to a medical fraternity. It was simply an inquiry, and afterwards I was found wanting. Why I don't know. Perhaps the accent of a foreign-born person played a role, or my demeanor, or my necktie, which was old and not in fashion... All the same, I thought a whole lot about those boys, but not as much as they did. This particular fraternity was, however, and exception among all the other ones in its dedication to learning. Its members habitually quizzed one another on medical subjects and thus may have attained a proficiency not achieved by non-members who were more or less on their own.
One phenomenon that amazed my still wondering senses was the social life of the college students, as distinct from their medical counterparts. In this community of scholars where the pursuit of knowledge should serve as a equalizing and unifying force with one student as worthy as any other, I soon perceived that a distinction existed and that for general purposes the student body was divided by its constituents themselves and by silent acquies­cence,
or social sanction, into members of the fraternities and sororities on the one hand and unaffiliated students on the other. The former called themselves Greeks and in the true spirit of the ancients labeled the other "barbs", that is, barbarians or outsiders. The latter category never made mention of themselves in these terms but were not adverse in referring to the Greeks as Greeks. There was not much evidence, if any, of course, that Greek civilization had now found a lofty outlet in the Greek-letter houses. Jazz music, croon songs, and other renditions of popular tunes blared from their Victrolas, too. One piece in particular, which began "By the silvery moon I want to spoon," possibly captured the essence of Greek-letter life, but it was easy on the ear. Not that the "barbs" were uncultured, uncouth, or smelly; but while the Greeks lived in stately mansions supported by more or less well-to-do parents, the "barbs" found refuge in boardinghouses.
The Greeks were selective in their social contacts and like the Hellenes themselves felt above the common herd, personified by the "barbs." Thus there was scant or no social communication between the two factions. As a rule, a Greek girl—unless possessed by overwhelming love—would date only Greek boys and vice versa. The Greeks were rather conscious of their status, the "barbs" either indifferent or else a little envious of those on the other side. I, who had been in this country only a few years, thought all this a little odd, if not out of place, since they all came from the same democratic background, fraternity brothers, sorority sisters, and plebeians. It had the familiar ring of European class distinction, the difference being it looked like a flight of fancy to be ignored. Modes of dress and living were also different: the fraternity brother would gladly don his coonskin coat, the trendy, bulky outer garment of the day, concealing perhaps a hip flask. This made him the fashionable college boy, according to the popular magazine College Humor. He also had a car, open of course, in which he and his sorority date would take joy-rides and all too frequently end up on a slab in the morgue. I often wondered when these people ever studied.
Americans may have discarded royalty; but deep down in their souls, I thought, there dwelled a vivid admiration for titled people, and invariably a baron or duke or something better could be pointed to in a family's record of its ancestors. One day on our campus in the true spirit of a fairy tale, it was announced that a Russian prince would honor the university with his presence, if as a student or something else I didn't know. Long before his appearance, when his arrival was a mere rumor, the social crowds, mostly members of the sororities and even some of the "barb" girls, became filled with great expectations and atwitter with excitement and made themselves ready to do proper homage to royalty. Articles on his visit to the university were printed; receptions including tea parties with real samovars were planned. It was to be as Russian as a night on a Bald Mountain—now transposed to another hillside, Mount Oread, not to feature prancing witches, of course, but rather girls from Kansas and dance music instead of peeling church bells. At that time, around 1930, the U.S. was being entered by a great number of immigrants, mostly White Russians, staunchly anti-communistic, many of whom called themselves princes. It was a time when America was not inundated by impoverished peasants from Europe, but by those born to the purple.
The Russian prince, imposter or not, finally arrived on our campus, whatever his mission, and managed to massage the snobbery of the social caste—and for a short time lived off the fat of both Greek and "barbarian" tables. Then he was gone and the excitement died down, but fond memories with an alleged royal touch lingered for a long time. I never saw the fellow. I was occupied with books, debts, and dishwashing. As an afterthought, however, one may recall the U.S. Congress in its early years and its Committee on Titles, where it once was proposed that the President of the United States be addressed as "Elective Majesty" or "Elective High."
My own social life was restricted in several respects: lack of financial means being one and a paucity of the usual social expressions being another. My mother's beliefs and strictness shaped my social life, and I may as well appreciate it now. I and my siblings were forbidden to attend any of the goings-on in the People's Amusement Park in my hometown. Dancing was the Devil's invitation to sin. And no card playing in our home and no smoking and no alcohol, but she cured a cold by making us drink almost a half-full cup of hot vodka, the hotter the better, but the very thought of it probably cured the cold. It still amazes me that anyone is able to drink vodka straight.
The country was now suffering the first, frightful symptoms of the Great Depression, a plague filled with despair and hopeless­ness,
abundant in all parts of the country. I was keenly aware, actually too keenly, of my status as a European foreigner-greenhorn. And in those days such a person was held in low esteem in certain strata of society. My professors and fellow medical students, though, never showed any evidence of prejudice or dislike that I could perceive. In Lindsborg I had always felt as a Swede among Swedes, albeit I had only recently arrived. But this was a university with a great mixture of students from many backgrounds and with diverse views of the world. Some of them regarded anything foreign with jaundiced eyes. The Western World had located the Devil in Russia; and in America at the time, anti-communism was passionately nurtured. There were, however, some individuals, even in high positions, who found certain aspects of communism compatible with their understanding. There was even talk of this as perhaps the wave of the future. One college instructor, actually a civil, caring person, had embraced a few communistic ideas and as a reward became known as "that commie" or "dirty red." Well, any dissenter, political or non-political, was in line for the "dirty red" label. I happened to express some sympathy for the harassed "commie" instructor to a student who was familiar with my background and who after recovering from his instant shock angrily said to me, "Don't bite the hand that feeds you!" This brotherly admonishment immedi­ately
put me in my place as an ingrate—perhaps even a sinister sympathizer—and identified my standing in his society. It was at that time a sensitive subject in an otherwise insensitive era.
I made the acquaintance of a graduate student by the name of Kilpatrik. He was two to three years older than I and to comply with Emily Post's rules I always called him Mr. Kilpatrik. He was a restless, unromantic, talkative fellow with a nervous twitch in his eyelids. His lips seemed to be drawn into a one-sided, perpetual smile. He was interested in the cold facts of history and language, and these he discussed in preference to anything else. To support himself, at least partially, he solicited subscriptions to the Saturday Evening Post, which must have provided only a meager income. He looked half-starved most of the time.
He was on good terms with an elderly, retired lady professor, Miss Murdoch, who lived in a little white Victorian frame house on one of the tree-lined streets. Many a time Kilpatrik and I would pay her visits, be seated in her parlor, which contained antique furniture, potted plants, a variety of heirlooms, lace curtains at the windows, small paintings of some long dead ancestors, the sleepy tick-tock of a Connecticut steeple clock, and finally the pleasant, faintly detected scent that tells more than one's eyes observe of surviving objects from a long since vanished era. And the lady of the house—small in stature, somewhat stooped, white hair, alert eyes, kind and gracious—completed the impression of ancientness. She was, however, no fossil but rather thought provoking and eagerly interested in the world. She was of New England stock, and her parents had been instrumental in the building and develop­ment
of the community. What I remember most vividly is her description of the Quantrill Raid in the summer of 1863 when the town of Lawrence, then a wealthy bastion of abolitionism, was sacked by border outlaws, pro-slavery forces. She was only a child when these bushwhackers came, but old enough to have the horror of the raid imprinted forever on her mind. There were killings, burnings, lootings, torture, maiming, and other atrocities commit­ted,
as is frequently the case in the name of some high-sounding principle or cause. Every family in town was affected in some way by the sufferings of that day. It was abhorrently impressive to hear her tell of that nefarious event, and strikingly peculiar to feel the proximity in time to one aspect of the Civil War, and to the ruthless Quantrill, who has been called "the bloodiest man in American history." Yet here was this kind woman talking about a terrible happening long, long ago with such expressiveness that I was removed back in time and could feel the tension and the fear of one of the victims of the raid.
The lady professor became a dear friend, and during our visits in her home we partook of the good life for some salutary moments, drinking tea and listening to her stories of many unusual happenings in or around Lawrence since the time of the Quantrill raid. Being a teacher, she would put a concealed meaning into some tale, and perhaps touch it up with a stroke of creative imagination, but this merely added intrigue to an actual event. She was a faithful Congregationalist and looked with compassion on men and women caught in the distressing circumstances of the ups and downs of life.
Appearances and deceptions sometimes go hand in hand, the professor said. She once knew a married couple in the neighbor­hood
who because of their exemplary devotion to one another became the subject of the entire community's admiration and envy and a model of marital bliss. A more courteous, helpful, loving husband and a more appreciative recipient of attention than the wife could not be found in ten counties. It was fidelity in its purest form, people would tell each other, the be-all and end-all of human relationships. But it was not so. One day in the thirtieth year of their marriage the husband suddenly died, and tucked away in his wallet the wife found a piece of paper on which he had vengefully summed up a false and frustrating conjugal role. He called her an ogre, a tyrant, insensitive and domineering to a degree that made him a non-entity, a miserable nobody in order to keep her quiet and have peace at home.
Yes, that is a lesson, the teacher-professor said; and though the vision may seem clear, there exists such an abundance of misinterpretations and deceptions that things, as an ancient philosopher said, are not what they seem. And somewhat akin, in a way, I remember the professor of surgery I later had who told his students to ask themselves during the examination of a patient and his complaints, often obscure, "Is there something or is there nothing?"
Medical students spent the first one and a half years of study on the campus in Lawrence and then, if they had completed the required subjects with passing grades, were transferred to the University Medical Center in Kansas City, Kansas, for further studies and clinical work. I had convinced myself that my academic work in Lawrence had been satisfactory and that a transfer was at hand. But this self-induced conviction turned out to be quite a misconception. I received an F in biochemistry. It floored me. I wasn't that bad. I had done fairly well in that subject, I thought, and didn't deserve such a setback. I made some cautious objections but without success. So I spent the next year repeating biochemis­try;
and the final grade now was an A, which upon a little reflection I felt I didn't deserve either, but I made no objections. I did not want the year to be one of dawdling, so I signed up for two more subjects.
One day I was told that the bursar wanted to see me. I went to her office and was informed that my presence at the university was about to become—"I am sorry, young man"—a non-presence. I didn't understand what she was speaking about. Perhaps my status as a non-citzen of the country was the problem, but finally it was made clear to me that it centered around the omnipresent problem of money and unpaid fees. My mind refused to accept any such notion that I had arrived at a door marked exit. I used all available mechanisms of defense, reasoning, explanations, logic, apologies, and even professed poverty. She was adamant and in a touchy mood; she may have seen many of the likes of me that same day. Suddenly, while her unyieldingness increased and my spirit deflated, it seemed as if my entire world was collapsing around me and that all of my efforts, studies, and work had come to naught. I spent the next few days contemplating life's fickleness. Then a friend told me to go and talk with the dean, and I did. This was Dr. Werner, a native of England. In no time at all he disarmed the bursar and persuaded her to have the score settled on another, better day. I once saw a film in which a house was completely destroyed; but when the film was run backwards, the house came together again, piece by piece. A few days later, Dr. Werner gave me a job with pay washing glassware in a laboratory as well as a small student loan. And later still he invited me to his home to have Christmas dinner with his family. Going from the bursar to the dean was, I fancied, like Kipling's lone traveller who went down to Gehenna and up to the throne. For me and also for many other students, Dear Werner is unforgettable.
After this perilous escape from misfortune, virtually by the skin of my teeth, I was advised to get ready for my transfer. One month after that memorable Christmas dinner I together with my classmates, departed for the Medical Center in Kansas City. I did not give any particular thought to possible new problems that might arise in the future.